


If You Can’t Ride Two Horses At Once You Should Get Out Of The Circus

by Weaponized



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes kills nazis, Bucky stabs a nazi and steals their lingerie, Christmas, Darkfic, Feminization, Light dick biting, Lingerie, M/M, NSFW Art, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Steve is into it, Strength Kink, Titty Fucking, World War II, bucky barnes and his knives, bucky only emotes while steve is balls deep, descriptions of stabbing, fantasizing about violence, unrepentant bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weaponized/pseuds/Weaponized
Summary: Some things were just impossible to get by this point in the war. Real eggs, paper thick enough to feel a pencil pushed into it; good quality butter and soap were a distant memory. But one night shortly after Christmas 1943, Steve has an unexpected luxury waiting for him at his digs one night, and that little piece of luxury has some ideas about how they can spend the evening. It’s not sleep.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 41
Kudos: 117





	If You Can’t Ride Two Horses At Once You Should Get Out Of The Circus

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write about lingerie, filth and festivity.  
> Art by blessed Christmas angel [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com).
> 
>  **PLEASE NOTE:** This fic contains some dark themes relevant to the setting of war. Bucky and Steve's characterisations are products of that here. There are references to violence and there's a lot of blood.

* * *

* * *

Some things were just impossible to get by this point in the war. Real eggs, paper thick enough to feel a pencil pushed into it; good quality butter and soap were a distant memory.

And yet, from the moment Steve opened the door of his hotel room, the fresh scent of clean soap combined with warm steam filled his nose. The blackout had turned the hotel into a strange, grey place where the concierge had to lead him to his floor with a fluttering candle, but from the crack of the door there was a glow enveloping his hand on the wood. Pushing it open, he silently shifted his weight to look inside.

There were lamps and candles burning on every surface. The bulky, dusty curtains were draped across the windows, their golden tassels abandoned on the floor. The room was large and grand, though half the furniture was missing and the carpet had long been pulled up, leaving bare boards beneath Steve’s feet as he slowly opened the door full and walked inside, his gaze finally fixing on the dim island in the center of the room; the bed.

Bucky was lying on his stomach, arms extended in front of him, the whole, long length of him displayed in a way that suggested this pose had been studied from a pin-up poster. Or perhaps one of those special-edition matchbooks, the ones that stayed in circulation long after the matches inside had been exhausted.

He was bathed in light from every angle—let no one tell you Bucky Barnes didn’t know his angles—and his hair was freshly washed and artfully tousled over his face. His regulation-US-Army haircut was let loose into something that better resembled the boy who came to life in only one place; the bedroom. This Bucky was different from the Bucky who nursed a hefty measure of Scotch and talked shop with the special forces boys. He was different from the Bucky who marched and smoked and gently nudged the Howlies along at Steve’s flank, his flinty gaze more effective than any of Steve’s best laid intentions.

This Bucky was luxury. He was indulgent and beautiful, and he was wearing a peach girdle tied up tight with spans of laces around his hips.

Steve dropped himself back on the closed door and let out his breath in a mirthful huff, “Buck. Don’t you look swell. A proper doll.” He snapped the lock by the handle shut.

They had been apart for just a week, the Howlies working their way through a series of towns by the Italian border, distributing information and valuable weapons undercover while Steve had been regretfully pushing pencils in London, working out some plans for advancement with the brass while he continued to smooth over the bureaucratic side effects of abandoning his role as a chorus girl and taking up with his own unit in occupied Europe. Suddenly it was two days past Christmas, and Steve had trudged through the frozen London blackout to get to his digs, which just happened to be in a hotel half occupied by crushed- looking refugees and half by fresh-faced US officers. Steve had expected to brace himself against the mysterious draft that seemed to howl around the suite and huddle down for the night in a bed that had once been comfortable.

“Hello, soldier,” Bucky spoke and Steve felt a deeply satisfying warmth in the deep parts of his soul. It was the same feeling he had got when he yanked Bucky’s limp body up from the cruel steel grip of Zola’s operating table, the feeling of coming home.

“I missed that voice,” he began to shrug off his jacket and simultaneously fumbled to loosen his tie, “I didn’t know you were coming to London, Buck. When’d you get here?”

Bucky smiled and stretched, “Just the voice? And I might have passed you in the corridors of HQ just an hour ago.”

“All of you,” he amended, advancing across the vast room, a once grand suite now turned into a place for two stupid boys with a war and a love affair between them, entirely ill equipped to deal with either. “You been spying on me, huh?”

Bucky pushed himself up on one elbow and flicked a hand out towards him, “Wait,” he commanded.

Steve stumbled to a halt, fingers tangled in his tie, ravenous.

Bucky smirked at him, “It’s hard to find good lingerie these days, you know.”

Steve rolled his eyes and dropped his hands, fingering the buttons of his fly, “Yeah, alright, I won’t go ripping your best things, doll.”

Bucky’s smirk turned into something more dangerous, “That’s not what I meant, Stevie.” Then he rolled over on the bed.

Steve felt his mouth drop open and he was on his knees on the bed before his mind had caught up with his hands. Bucky’s front was drenched in scarlet blood, dark red and horrifying, but the moment his fingers touched the fabric that covered waist and hips in a tragic cascade, he realised that it wasn’t Bucky’s.

He dragged his eyes up slowly over the mess of what had once been a pristine piece of pre-war lingerie, laces and silk ribbons covering a soft, primmly tailored peachy fabric. Bucky was smiling his tight, lovely smile.

The waist-cinching, generously boned girdle Bucky wore had once been worn by someone while they were stabbed, that was very clear. Looming right over him, Steve could smell the oaty vanilla of real French soap on Bucky’s skin, but barely a trace of the tang of blood that would be drenching them if he was really bleeding.

The room was being warmed by a smouldering fire in the bare fireplace, but it was still cool enough for there to be a trail of goosebumps following Steve’s touch as he moved his hand down Bucky’s side. “So you really went to some extremes to get me a Christmas present this lovely, huh,” Steve murmured as he brushed his fingers back and forth over one exposed nipple.

“I sure did find it cheap,” Bucky drawled, lazily plucking at the fan of pink laces on his hip.

Now that he had settled that Bucky wasn’t hurt, and now that he was pressed close to the firm, male, lovely length of him, Steve could appreciate that a lethal knife job had been done on whoever had been wearing the garment before Bucky. “Did you do all this yourself, honey?” he ran one finger across the frayed and torn area at the apex of one panel.

Bucky hummed, “I sure did. I mighta been waiting in her bathroom for her when she got home.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve’s heart thrilled at the thought and he leaned down to smother his delight in brown hair.

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice was infused with self-satisfied confidence. He dropped his tone into something intimate, “Shoulda heard her scream. Like the devil himself had popped out the mirror. It was just little old me, though.” The image was complete in Steve’s mind, Bucky waiting in the dark of some little French town-house bathroom, the quaint little window letting in just a sliver of moonlight, and Bucky would have stood in that horrifyingly still way he had when he was waiting. Like he was already a ghost.

He watched Bucky run his strong, capable fingers over the smooth bit of thigh that was peeking out from the edge of the boned and tightly laced peach fabric with great interest, feeling his heart in his throat. It was still far too recently that he had felt the fear that Bucky was gone beyond the insurmountable barrier of death. Just two months had passed, but it was enough to have wrought something awful between them that made it hard for Steve to release the grip he had taken on one of Bucky’s wrists. He looked at his own fingers where they dug into the blue vein under white skin, the softest little velvet patch of vulnerability.

“Don’t worry,” Bucky was watching his hand knowingly, “lost my soul a long time ago, but I’m still here.”

Steve uncurled his fingers but didn’t release Bucky’s hand, instead pulling it out the way so he could bend down and place his lips against the blooded hem of the fabric at Bucky’s thigh. “I know,” he breathed in the feminine perfume clinging to the silk and cotton, sinking his teeth into the warm flesh inhabiting it now, “I just—”

Bucky laughed and cut him off, pulling his wrist free with a jerk and sinking both hands into Steve’s carefully creamed hair, disordering the strands until it hung in lank strands over his forehead. “Don’t tell me, Steve, don’t bother. We aren’t who we were, I know already.”

“No, that’s not all of it, Buck” Steve protested, even as he let Bucky go for the buttons at his throat, the crisp, tight edges of his shirt instantly crumpling to the harsh tugs of lusty fingers.

“You weren’t going to tell me I’m scaring you? That I’m not the man who left you in New York?”

It was an argument that had frozen them apart before Steve had left for London the week before. He let Bucky push his knuckles into the hollow of his throat as he carefully slid button after button free of the bound holes. Waiting until Bucky looked into his eyes to respond, catching his icy, grey eyes and holding them, he reached up to catch the hands at his chest, “Buck, all I wanna tell you right now is that I don’t deserve you but I’m gonna have you anyway.”

Bucky instantly regretted the smile that tore across his face, Steve could tell, but before he could turn it into something bitter, Steve pushed him back down firmly onto the bed, shrugging out of his half-undone shirt, catching half-cocked lips in a kiss.

This wasn’t the same Bucky from before, and he certainly wasn’t the same Steve that Bucky had clasped in his arms last time they had stood toe to toe in New York. But where Steve had finally been given a body that matched the churning of his mind, it was as if Bucky had been reduced into something that was less substantial than air and no longer solid enough to hold more than a shadow of his effervescence.

Still, it was hard to think of that when Bucky was so warm under his hands now, doing something that before that war had been the guiltiest of his pleasures. Steve pushed a large hand tight against the hem of the girdle, feeling the whalebone stays against his knuckles. “What am I gonna find up here, huh,” he mumbled into the wet, warm connection of their mouths.

Bucky squirmed under him and gasped when Steve’s fingers dug into the inside of his thigh, “Wait,” he tried to push Steve away, but obviously didn’t really mean it because he mostly seemed to enjoy getting his cool palms on the burning-hot flesh of Steve’s pecs, which he squeezed.

“What is it,” Steve ran his other hand up the entirely whole, and if he wasn’t very much mistaken, pure silk, stocking that encased Bucky’s left leg, “you don’t want me to admire all these lovely bits you put on for me, honey?”

“You’re gonna get blood on your shirt,” Bucky hissed.

“Oh? Don’t care.” Steve pushed down more insistently still, sliding his hand under the ribbons and straps that were cross crossing hips and finding the thing he was looking for, the edge of a pair of silky knickers.

“Colonel Philips might care when you have to explain to him you didn’t murder a French prostitute—”

Steve smirked, “That what you wanna be tonight, mademoiselle?” He stroked over the silky, soft stretch of thigh that was spread wide for him. Bucky blushed bright red in the lamplight and Steve knew he had got it in one, as usual.

The ruined girdle was still perfectly structurally sound, and it was doing an excellent job of pinching Bucky’s waist into something tiny and lovely, even padded as it was with the lean muscle of a man who spent most of his time on the march. It lay snug against his lower ribs, accentuating where his breaths lifted his chest in comforting little pants.

Steve stopped his attempts to get under the tight lacing and instead sat up between silk-encased thighs, putting his big hands on that little tightly-laced waist. “What was she like, the girl,” he asked.

Bucky moved to finish undoing the few remaining fastenings of his shirt, gently pulling each little brass button free. “She was tall, almost as tall as me. Dark hair. Her mother was German and she had been selling out the local French resistance to some washout at the local. He squealed to Dum Dum and I went to pick her up,” he slowly worked the shirt off Steve’s arms, replacing both hands firmly on his waist after freeing them from the fabric and tossing it over the side of the bed well away from any of the naked flames that ringed them in a warm glow.

“She sure had some nice little things, didn’t she,” Steve squeezed his grip, feeling the stays creak under his palms. The quality of the piece was undoubtedly pre-war, and what’s more it was carefully embellished with a few scraps of real lace—the good stuff that was soft and came from Paris.

“Musta liked that Ted a little more ‘n’ she aught,” Bucky smiled, “all laced up like that.”

“And yet you got it all messy, didn’tcha.” The jut of Bucky’s hips wasn’t what a woman had, but the copious lacing had allowed him to pull it tight to his hips anyway. Steve could see where he had pulled on the silk tapes, dislodging them from their previous long-held positions in the silver clasps and tightening the garment to his own lithe, hard body, free from the luxury of soft femininity.

“Guess I did,” Bucky drawled, “doesn’t it look good, though? Thought that when I pulled it off her.”

“Leave her naked on the floor in her bathroom then, did you,” Steve let his fingers play at one of the several clasps gripped tight to the top of silk stockings.

Bucky nodded, “Mm hmm. Left her dressed in a nice little thing I took with me; a French flag Dernier got from a feisty Madame with la resistance.”

“Aren’t you a clever little lady,” Steve mumbled as he tugged one of the fastenings free and felt the satisfying spring of the silk against his fingers.

Bucky squirmed, “I’m not a little lady,” he muttered.

“Sure, honey,” Steve acted distracted by the way more thigh was being revealed by his hands, but he watched from the corner of his eye as Bucky huffed and wriggled down on the once-luxurious quilt.

“Kiss me,” he demanded next, settling a little deeper into his chosen role and wrapping his thighs around Steve’s waist. “Don’t undo my things yet, kiss me.”

They had been playing this game a long time, but Steve was surprised just how comforting it was to feel Bucky use one of his odd little foibles that had meant very little to Steve before, only now it meant that Bucky was still his, still the same beneath the hazy layers that war had wrapped him in. During the long New York winters in their tiny apartment Bucky had kept a glorious pair of nylons at the back of his drawer, and he had been a chronic thief of silk panties since the tender age of sixteen. _“Do you know the things I can get for these, Stevie? Full dollars from the geeza’s down at Mickeys! Can you believe it?”_ His little voice had been so eager, so willing.

And Steve hadn’t quite figured out what he’d meant then, but he’d nodded appreciatively anyway, all of fifteen and trying to work out if this was just another part of growing up, but even he knew that dollar bills were lovely. Eventually, Bucky and his elicit little tasks down at the queer pub had stopped when he could get easier dollars from more attractive sources, but the little tidbits of and scraps of silk and lace had continued to show up.

Bucky’s body had changed since the last time Steve had held it through a layer of silk or faille satin. There was nothing but the barest of scraps to softly protrude over the tight thigh-line of the girdle, where in the past Steve had peeled garters from flushed trenches in the generous flesh there. The rations and hard work of Nazi prisoners of war didn’t allow sweet boys to stay soft for long, and his time at Azzano had robbed Bucky of more than just the nice, thick weight of his thighs. Anyway, no matter how you looked at it, Steve was the biggest change of all, with his new, large body which loomed big over Bucky’s. Taking hold of the nice, hand-sized dip at the back of one of Bucky’s knees, he used that to his full advantage as he hefted himself and most of Bucky over on the bed until he could pull the whole, bloody mess into his lap.

They kissed for a long, dreamy length of time, hands wandering, hips tight together. Bucky’s flesh was cool against him, soaking up the warm light of the lamps. Tucked tight into Steve’s lap, it was easier to feel his growing interest, the fragments of silk doing nothing like what the girdle had done to hide that Bucky was very much a boy and had a very nice and sizable dick; lacy things designed to cover good girls under skirts and dresses did very little to keeping Bucky’s naughty boy parts from pressing up against Steve’s thigh. Little thrusts of hips against his told him that Bucky, too, was losing patience when it came to their remaining pieces of clothing—Steve was still starched tightly into his formerly presentable regulation officer’s trousers.

The back of the girdle was an unfathomable myriad of laces, ribbons and eyelets in a glorious, tight array. But the front, soaked in black, dried blood as it was, was closed via a series of silver hooks. Bucky’s back was straight and his body bowed gently into Steve like it never did when they fucked naked. Bucky usually liked to have Steve somehow in, or near, his mouth at all times, taking bites of his ear, neck, shoulder and anywhere else while they took their relentless pleasure out in one another, but when he was _like this_ , indulging, he was lighter, barely brushing their bodies together, holding himself like someone different.

Tilting Bucky backwards taking a firm grip on the top of the corsetry, Steve pinched at the first bloody hook on the front, feeling the discomfiting not-yet-dried evidence of Bucky’s mission under his hands. The fastenings separated easily, and he hungrily worked his way down, watching the peachy fabric lose its rigid shape, revealing skin marked in long lines of crimson.

“My front is all bloody,” Bucky said softly when the fabric was finally whisked away and he was left in just a smear of blood, a pair of wrinkled stockings and the smallest French knickers Steve had ever seen. Vive la France, he thought.

Steve realised that Bucky was smirking at him with intent.

“What are you lookin’ at?” he nudged the bold apex of Bucky’s cheek with his slightly bloody fingers.

“All of that American beefsteak.” Suddenly Bucky’s probing fingers tweaked at his nipple and he jerked, dislodging satiny thighs from around his hips.

He snaked an arm around Bucky’s freshly bared waist, enjoying the way he was beginning to come soft. Steve was delighted that Bucky enjoyed his new body, the bulky muscles everywhere, the bullish jaw. Steve hadn’t really known how to feel about it when he first stumbled out of the Vita-Ray machine. Then he’d felt a shadow of self-doubt over his growing pride in it, wondering if he deserved to be big and strong now, when he’d spent his whole life as someone else. But that dark side had vanished very suddenly one night when Bucky had licked his abs and groaned, lost somewhere during the long march back from Azzano, and he had shaken his dirty brown head and said, _“Fuck, Steve, all this for me? I’m the luckiest boy in the world.”_

The leftover flakes and smudges of blood rubbed off under Steve’s fingers, “You really put that on before it was done drying, huh?” The blood was just a pinkish smudge, smearing the pale, hairless skin between hip and waist, “You got so clean, but left that?”

Bucky’s smile was the same one Steve had seen on him all too much lately. The one that he wore whenever anyone was standing too close to Captain America, or too engaged in conversation with him. At first Steve had mistaken it for jealousy, thinking that Bucky was struggling with envy for what Steve had become, stealing his limelight at the center of every room. But as they had trudged through the late November frosts on their first mission together and Bucky had sent that same look at him from across a frozen clearing, he had realised that it wasn’t envy, but a sort of burning need to make sure Steve was being respected.

“So where’d you get this nice soap, huh?” he buried his nose in the hard line of Bucky’s shoulder, “Any left for me?”

“You’ve been in London, not lurking in bathrooms murdering first-time Nazi informants,” Bucky’s fingers were at his waist, nudging at the buttons of this fly, the edge of his hand pressing tantalisingly at the swollen flesh beneath.

“London ain’t got soap that smells this good,” Steve continued his deep huffing breaths up into buttery-soft brown hair, pausing to put his teeth on Bucky’s ear.

“She was a baby Nazi with good black maket sources, I guess,” Bucky preened, tipping his head to the side, inviting Steve to keep going. “Stole it. And the candles. And these outrageous knickers, whaddya think?”

Steve took that as his cue to stop sniffing and coddling, and lie back on the bed. He watched Bucky stretch out above him—wasting no time getting his fingers more firmly into the buttons of Steve’s fly and popping them free. Steve hissed when cool fingers touched his dick, Bucky having made quick work of wriggling all ten digits past his underwear.

“Mm, yummy,” the tone was rough and lusty, and Bucky followed his words up with a firm squeeze at Steve’s hardening cock. Steve had always had a nice, long cock, but the serum had swollen him up everywhere—like a juicy, ripe berry—and now the girth of him stretched the limits of Bucky’s grip. His strong, long fingers wrapped around the flesh with a determined kind of enthusiasm, though, just like they always had. “Can I suck you off?” Bucky asked with a barely concealed flutter of his eyelashes.

“Oh, God. Please,” Steve was enraptured by the gentle squeezing pressure of Bucky’s palm stroking over his dick in tight little pumps.

“Have you seen the French girls do this?” Bucky wriggled backwards out of Steve’s lap, nudging his thighs apart none too gently and with a lot of squeezing and stroking, before settling between them, arms draped over Steve’s hips. “It’s like lunchtime at the zoo, totally shameless,” Bucky sounded like he was a big fan of that, and Steve was instantly torn between asking how exactly Bucky knew how French girls sucked cock and asking for a demonstration immediately.

Eyes darkened by anticipation, Bucky leaned in to kiss at the tip of Steve’s dick, then drew his head back just far enough to let Steve watch a thick glob of spit leave his lips. Watching Bucky drool over his cock while wearing French lace wasn’t something Steve had ever imagined before, but he was sure it was going to feature prominently in his wet dreams from this day forward. A pink tongue chased the shiny drops of warm saliva down and a helpless groan of want broke free from Steve’s throat when lips flattened to the head of his cock.

Tomorrow they would be on their way back to the frozen, eerie world of winter warfare in a land occupied by Nazi’s. Tomorrow Bucky would be a sergeant again, the quiet, strong presence on Steve’s left. Tomorrow Steve would have to be Captain America, a role that was an empty glove until he put his hand inside and gave it direction. Maybe one of them would die and leave the other alone to fend for himself.

Bucky’s fist slid down, well slicked and well practiced, until his little finger lay tight against Steve’s balls while his mouth did filthy things to the rest of his cock. It was more than enough to drive any rational thoughts about mortality or death far out of his mind and leave him only with the same thrill that had infused him from the moment Bucky had rolled over and shown his blood soaked belly.

French girls apparently taught Bucky that he could fit more cock in his mouth than either of them had previously known to be possible. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Steve gasped as Bucky swallowed him and choked a little with a moan that vibrated through all the flesh stuffed down his throat. “Jesus, Buck,” he put his hand over Bucky’s at the base of his cock, helplessly squeezing harder until it felt like he was about to come right then in a rush.

Bucky pulled up and off with a flick of his tongue, “See?” he grinned, cheeks bright red, eyes glittering with mischief and a messy smear of Steve’s precome on his lip.

“Do that again,” Steve demanded, losing any thoughts he had about French girls the moment the frigid winter air of the room hit his wet dick. His fingers found their way home to the tousled curls on the crown of Bucky’s head, crushing them into a fistful of leverage. Bucky made a delighted sound as he pushed his head back down, flicking his tongue from side to side as he went. Steve felt him take the last breath before pushing himself down, hands clutching at the bedclothes when he fought the urge to gag, the helpless spasms of his throat doing amazing things to Steve’s cock.

Flat on his back, Steve couldn’t do much more than swear fluently at the ceiling as Bucky went to town, but the frigid air of the room combined with the tight, wet heat of a willing throat on his cock was doing enough for him that soon enough he was panting Bucky’s name. “Buck—Bucky, fuck, stop—”

Pulling back off with a smack of his lips and a ragged breath, Bucky slurped in an obscene display. “Tastes like freedom,” he spoke through his freshly fucked throat in a rasp.

Steve groaned despairingly and let go of his fistfull of brown hair, letting Bucky sit up better and get Steve’s dick between both hands again, stroking and rubbing at the wet, sloppy length of it.

“You don’t wanna come in my throat?” Bucky asked with a tone of supreme disappointment.

Steve threw a hand over his eyes and laughed, “Fuck—Buck, I wanna come all over you, you know that—”

“Do it then,” Bucky leaned back down to lap over his own fingers and kiss at the swollen pink head. He swirled his tongue over the head lovingly, gently sinking his teeth into the flushed flesh. Steve felt more spit trickle down when he drew away a little to breathe, “C’mon, come all over me. You’re so fast, ready to just go off. I want it.”

* * *

**Image** : toothy blowjob | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

Steve took over the short, sharp strokes of their joined hands on his dick, feeling the wet, sweet laps of tongue every time his hand and Bucky’s mouth collided. He was making a rough whine in the back of his throat as he shoved himself up on one elbow to better watch Bucky’s mouth on him. “I’m gonna—”

Most of it got in Bucky’s mouth, but some dripped in slow, thick droplets down his cheek and chin. Bucky licked his lips and touched a hand to his cheek, a satisfied look on his face even as he continued to stroke Steve’s cock, gently and thoroughly finishing him off. He’d be raring to go again in all too little time, something new for them but something Bucky had embraced with enthusiasm, since getting Steve off seemed to bring him as much pleasure as getting his own dick wet. Bucky was a crowd pleaser.

“How do I look?” Bucky winked. The same well-used wink he used on every nicely turned out girl he crossed paths with. Only they didn’t get those lashes laced with tiny pearls of Steve’s come, or the filthy effect of Bucky forcing little mouthfuls of come back out his mouth with his tongue until they ran and dripped down his chin.

Steve leaned up and swiped some of it up with his thumb, pushing it back inside. “You look like the kinda dream I’d hate to wake up from.”

His thumb was mostly just smearing the mess around more on Bucky’s face and over his mouth, but soon enough Bucky started to help in the most torturous way imaginable, by sucking and licking all over Steve’s hand. Bucky’s lips had always been something forbidden to Steve. Ever since they were small children, he had had this lovely, plump mouth; the upper lip, crested by a sweet, chubby bow that gave even his most mischievous grins a sweetness, and Steve had agonised over them. Even now, his face covered in the creamy evidence of cock sucking and wearing stolen lingerie, his angelic expression was so convincing that Steve was shocked when he was suddenly shoved back down on the bed by the shoulders.

Bucky let his full weight fall down onto Steve’s chest, connecting their mouths in a sticky, biting kiss, “I never dreamed you’d ever look like this,” he joked, his voice muffled by closeness, “Never dreamed I’d get to do things like this,” and he dug his hands into Steve’s chest, cupping his pecs and pushing them together in an obscene display.

Steve tried to laugh but his voice had turned to something pathetic and got caught in his throat somewhere. Bucky was crawling up his body, fingers busy rubbing and pinching at the sensitive skin around his nipples and it was a lot to try and handle when he had just shot his load and while Bucky was wearing the most distracting volume of hand-stitched frills imaginable. He was flat on his back, one long, elegant thigh either side of his waist, and in the middle was very little lingerie and a lot of Bucky Barnes. Steve could see the damp cling of silk to the tip of his dick where it had leaked, stuffed behind just a thin layer of fabric and dainty ruching.

Steve gasped when insistent fingertips brushed over and over his nipples before pinching hard. Bucky leaned down to bite into the bulging muscle there, “I wanna fuck these tits,” he said baldly, cocking a hip.

“What?” Steve stuttered.

“I want. To fuck. Your tits.” Bucky showed his teeth, pushing his hands together again to make the bulging muscles come together.

Steve gaped up at the glorious effigy looming over him, “Y-You can?” His voice sounded weak to his own ears.

“I can do whatever I want,” Bucky muttered quietly, eyes on the pink, pert nubs under his fingertips.

Steve groaned as little fissions of pure lust sparked at him every time the rough, calloused pad of Bucky’s index finger released his nipple. He had always had sensitive, soft nipples, and the serum hadn’t changed that, but it _had_ given Bucky about four extra handfuls of meaty muscle to play with all around them.

His orgasm-addled brain was still moving at a sluggish pace even as he felt himself begin to come hot again when his hands found the backs of Bucky’s thighs, gripping at them right where the softer flesh gave way to the swell of his ass.

“Take my cock out,” Bucky wiggled his hips from side to side, leaning into Steve’s warm palms.

Steve complied, plucking at the elasticated waistband of the knickers and drawing it downwards until it stretched enough for the damp head of Bucky’s hard cock to peek out. He reached his fingers inside and made a fist, slowly encompassing the length of Bucky’s warm, hard arousal in his hand, pushing silk aside as he went. The sight of his flushed, pink dick against the creamy, peach fabric made Steve think of sweet, delicious things he hadn’t eaten in a long time. He began to gently work his wrist up and down, looking up to watch Bucky’s face.

Lips parted and his expression full of mischief, Bucky only posed for a moment, while Steve jerked him off, before leaning forward and pushing Steve’s tits together again, hard. “Help me,” he shuffled his knees up the bed, tucking them under Steve’s biceps until he was sitting right on his ribcage.

Steve was so big, and his muscles so bulky, that he marvelled at how wide Bucky had to spread his legs to fit his thick, warm cock between Steve’s pecs. “Oh, God,” he watched Bucky bite his lip as he looked down with intense concentration at where Steve could feel his hands were squeezing all the flesh available together.

“Look at that,” Bucky said distractedly, eyes shining, rapt on the way his cock was tucked tight into the trench of Steve’s chest.

Steve looked, tucking his chin into his chest to watch as Buck moved his hips experimentally back and forth, the firm drag on his dick making him hiss. He bent over to reach over Steve’s head, sinking his nails into the thick meat by one pink nipple as he fumbled in the pillows for what turned out to be a pot of Vaseline. He scooped out a generous volume to slather on his dick and grinned as he leaned hard on his hands and pumped his cock in and out.

Within moments, the vaseline was getting on the silk knickers and the sounds coming out of Bucky’s mouth were sending Steve into something approaching a crisis. He was trying to look at everything at once, but with Bucky leaning almost his entire weight on his chest, leaning right over him, it was hard to choose where to point his eyes. The sweat was beading along Bucky’s hairline, the way his lip was turning brighter and brighter red the more he bit and tortured it with his teeth, the way his cock was sliding in and out from the tight clutch of _his tits_ in desperate little thrusts—it was a lot.

“Ask me how it feels,” Bucky demanded in between gasps of breath.

Steve clenched his fingers on bony hips, “H-How does it feel?”

“Like the best pair of tits I ever got my hands on.”

Steve groaned and Bucky decided to punctuate his words with twin pinches to his nipples. The cold air of the room was prickling at his skin now that his legs and stomach were free from Bucky’s body heat and his nipples ached as they were torturously rolled between icy fingers. It was a lot, and even flat on his back Steve was starting to feel all the muscles in his body clench up with the urge to sling Bucky off him and collide their bodies in a way that was more satisfying for Steve and his neglected dick.

He let go of his handful of ass to try and touch himself just a little, but suddenly the pot of Vaseline was back, and Bucky was grabbing at his hand, “Here, Stevie, finger me, c’mon.”

“Fuck—Buck, slow down,” he tried to sit up a little, but Bucky slapped one palm down on his chest.

“Are you gonna buck me off, pony?” Bucky did indeed wobble, but Steve gripped his waist.

“Pony? Are we doing horse play now, cowboy?” The weight on his arms was awkward, half trying to sit up, half holding onto Bucky’s not inconsiderable weight.

“Could never ride you like this before, huh,” letting go of Steve’s chest Bucky took hold of his head instead, sliding fingers through his hair in a loving sort of caress that nevertheless contained far too much scratching, “Same lovely face though.” Suddenly Bucky was slithering backwards and rubbing himself at Steve’s crotch, wriggling down into his lap.

It was true, Steve had fucked Bucky silly in a lot of positions in a lot of locations, but when it came to riding his dick, it was probably a bad idea on a pint sized asthmatic, so Bucky hadn’t had much opportunity—with Steve anyway, he was sure Bucky had tried it out on someone else.

“You wanna?” he was still holding the Vaseline, and sat up better to actually get his head on a level with the monster who had been straddling him for the past half hour, “You wanna ride my dick?” He meant for it to sound commanding, or at least confident, but it mostly came out hopeful.

Bucky was palming his own dick, still slick, wet and hard. “Yeah,” he grinned, “I want you to finger me until I’m screaming then I wanna ride you into the fuckin’ sunset, Stevie. Merry Christmas to me, happy new fuckin’ year.” And he stuck his tongue out and licked right up Steve’s cheek before gripping his chin to kiss him.

He decided that it was time to stop taking orders from Bucky right about then, because it was cold in the room, the smell of French soap was making him dizzy with the need to feel more flesh against his, and the taste of Bucky’s kiss was too good to let go. So when Bucky tried to pull back and presumably go back to torturing him in some new way involving his wild fantasies and Steve’s new body, he didn’t let him.

“Mmph,” was mumbled against his lips as Bucky went rigid and then limp in his arms.

Biting at the red, swollen mess of Bucky’s lower lip, Steve pulled his head back with one hand, “Alright, if you want to get fingered, I’ll finger you.” And he found that it was laughably easy to throw the body in his lap down on the lumpy blankets. Having super strength, it turned out, was usable in the bedroom.

Bucky rolled over, immediately recovering to smack his own bare ass with one hand, the ringing slap leaving a pink handprint on the exposed skin of one cheek.

Steve grabbed at the poor, abused remains of the silk knickers, “This is the first time I’ve had you all alone and on a bed since this whole mess started,” he hauled Bucky closer and pushed his shoulders down, pulling his ass up, “gimme a turn.”

Bucky tried to push himself back up but Steve tapped his shoulder and he collapsed with a delighted moan into the pillows. He put his palm flat onto the long length of spine that was presented to him and pushed it down.

Whenever they were together, Bucky has always been the instigator—finding opportunities, laying plans, expressing his ideas. But when it came down to it, Steve was usually the one who directed the way things would go, and sure, Bucky had had fun this time with his lingerie and his blood, but Steve was about to snap if he didn’t get his hands back on the reins.

He buried his fingers in the layers of silky ruffles that were disguising the real prize. It was childsplay to rip the fabric, tearing it right off Bucky’s hips and throwing it across the room where it hit the wall and crumpled to the floor. Steve lent down and bit at the newly revealed flesh, feeling the fine hairs against his tongue and enjoying the clean, milky scent. Bucky had scrubbed every inch of enemy territory off in Steve’s tin bath, obviously.

To find out just how thoroughly clean he was, there was only one real course of action. Getting a good grip on each perfectly naked ass cheek, he dived in to lick from perineum to the top of his crack, tasting the salty tang of sweat and the waxy remnants of soap suds. Bucky shouted some kind of protest into a pillow and tried to roll over, but Steve had him in an immovable grip and only pulled his hips back further to better get his mouth on the nice, ticklish little patch right above his asshole.

“St— Ugh,” Bucky said weakly once he had removed the pillow case from his mouth, “I said finger me,” he muttered.

“Don’t care,” Steve bit at the thin stretch of flesh over Bucky’s tailbone and kissed him there wetly, flicking his tongue out in little caresses down and down and down, until he was flicking his tongue at the tightly furled circle of his hole. “I’m gonna kiss you open ‘til you’re begging for it, Barnes.”

“Roger that, Captain,” Bucky said saucily, then gasped when Steve immediately plunged his tongue past his rim. “Ooffuck.”

The cold of the room didn’t matter when Steve could practically see the steam lifting off his own skin, arousal rushing through him in great waves as he licked at Bucky’s ass, sometimes fucking his tongue inside, sometimes just kissing at his hole, getting slick spit everywhere and making a mess. He could hold Bucky exactly where he wanted him. He could hear the increasingly desperate moans coming from the shock of disordered brown hair stuffed into a pillow, too, and it only egged him on.

After a while, he couldn’t ignore the fact that he was humping the bedclothes as much as he was fucking his tongue into Bucky’s asshole, so he surfaced with a grin and a new smack to Bucky’s asscheek. “Up you get, princess.” He didn’t wait for Bucky to comply but grabbed him by the waist and flipped him over. “How you gonna ride me down there?”

Bucky’s had lost all his cocksure bravado of earlier and his cheeks were flaming red. Despite his flagrant vanity and delight in nice little silky things that ladies wore, he was easily embarrassed and Steve eating him out until he begged therefore became a fight that Bucky usually won. That was going to change from this day on, Steve decided, looking from the slack, helpless line of his mouth all the way down to the hard, drooling length of his cock where it jutted up above his hip. Bucky threw an arm over his face, mortified “Steve, you’re too big, I can’t… You gotta finger me—”

“Oh yeah,” Steve, grinning, grabbed the slippery stuff and rubbed his fingers in it, hefting one of Bucky’s thighs over his arm, “silly me, forgetting that I can just—” and he picked Bucky up by the hips to fold him up and push two fingers inside.

Bucky tipped his head back and swore fluently, but he was smiling through it, fists clenched Steve’s hair, legs akimbo. He was perfect and full of humanity and love, and Steve couldn’t help but lean down and claim his mouth in a kiss as he pushed his fingers deep, gently pressing in until he could press the pads of his fingers down and slide his thumb against Bucky’s balls.

He wished Bucky could be like this all the time again. Not only when he had hours to come unwound at Steve’s hands. But in the middle of a war with bombs falling on them and snipers at every turn, how were they supposed to figure out how to navigate their hearts as well as their next moves in a never-ending battle. Steve let these thoughts flit through his mind and evaporate like the sweat off his back as he added a third finger and pinched his thumb in deep, watching the lithe body writhe and buck on the sheets beneath him.

When he was certain there was no muscle left to be thoroughly massaged through a layer of Vaseline, he hauled Bucky up off the sheets and into his lap again. He regained some of his good posture and dug his knees in with determination.

“All your blood’s gone,” Steve whispered against his lips, placing one palm on Bucky’s stomach, where the last little stains and flakes of the blood that had adorned him had been.

“I’ll get more,” Bucky whispered back, wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck and pressing forward into him.

It was a thrill and Steve felt the flash of something dark that was revealed in Bucky’s expression go through them both in an anticipatory shiver. They both fumbled with themselves trying to get Steve’s cock inside but it didn’t matter when they were looking into one another’s eyes, fixed on one another like whatever was between them would only strengthen the longer they locked eyes. Steve pushed his fingers against the slick, soft edge of Bucky’s hole and pulled him down firmly with the other hand, sheathing him firmly on his cock. The grip on his shoulders turned vice-like.

“Yes,” Bucky hissed, long and pained.

Steve fell back on his elbows, hands tight on the narrowest part of Bucky’s waist—much less waifish without the constricting help of his stolen corsetry, but firm and full of living breath instead. Bucky moved against him, tipping his hips forward to lift himself up and screw back down in one long motion. He didn’t hold back his weight, let all of himself drop onto Steve’s thighs, enjoying the way Steve’s hands kept him up.

“Could you—Could you lift me on your cock just… like this?”

Steve tested his grip, settling his hands under Bucky’s ribs and lifting him easily before dropping him back down. Bucky’s weight was little more than a slight tug on his muscles.

“Holy fuck,” Bucky grinned, slapping his hands to Steve’s biceps, clinging on. “Do that again.”

So Steve did, gradually adapting his grip until he had one hand under Bucky’s ass and the other in a tight grip on his waist, jammed up under his ribs. It surely wasn’t as comfortable as lifting himself on Steve’s dick, but after a few lifts, Steve found he couldn’t stop. The sensation of fucking Buck onto his cock was too good—tight and all encompassing as he sprawled halfway back on the bed, muscles bulging.

“Sweet Jesus,” Bucky mumbled, eyes rolling back in his head, his thighs lax and trailing into the bedclothes, useless when Steve was doing all the work. Bucky put one hand over his dick, rubbing his palm over the head, pulling it against his stomach. Little drops of pearly precome escaped between his fingers.

Steve felt his chest heave, the need to draw breath clawing at him and he realised he had been holding his breath, watching Bucky come apart between his hands, unable to escape. He wished with something visceral and deep that Bucky was still wearing the bloody bits of silk—or just the blood. He wanted them to be seen for who they truly were, him, an experiment and a freak, and Bucky, an angry ghost demanding his pound of flesh.

“God, what’s happened to us,” he growled as he fucked deep inside the warm, tight heat and held Bucky down tight against his hips.

He thought he heard Bucky mumble something like ‘nothing good’ towards the ceiling but it was quickly smothered in a moan saturated with pleasure. Steve certainly felt his whole body screaming _good_ though, as he felt his balls tighten and his hips thrust upwards, slamming into their carefully crafted rhythm.

Bucky swore in a long, weak stream of vowels when Steve threw him down on the bed yet again, “Fuck–goddamnit–Steve.”

Grabbing at a stray ankle, Steve yanked him back and hooked an arm around his waist, pulling his hips back until he could line up his aching cock and push back inside, reaching out to get hold of Bucky’s shoulder where it was pressed to the bed by his panting mouth.

A mixture of moans and exclamations of Steve’s name were audible from the blankets when his hips slammed back into the soft flesh of Bucky’s ass. Reaching around, he wrapped his fingers over Bucky’s on his dick, squeezing tight to pump their joined fists in time with his thrusts. Both of them were steaming with sweat now in the frigid room, even if Bucky’s flesh felt cool compared to the burning glow that Steve seemed to be emanating.

The struggling breaths Bucky was taking were like a fan to the flames, too, because this was like no kind of sex they’d had together before and Steve was finding he liked it a bit too much. He viewed his new, muscly body mostly as a means to a Nazi-punching end these days. However, there was no denying that along with the ability to thump bad guys, he also enjoyed the effect he had now when he walked into a room, or struck up a conversation with a dame. And now, he was finding something else he could learn to like—getting hold of Bucky’s shoulder and throat, and pulling him up off the ruined blnkets to fuck him until he couldn’t walk.

* * *

**Image** : taken from behind | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

The sound of Steve’s grunts and their flesh coming together in a desperate beat lasted only a few more minutes. Steve found he just couldn’t hold on any longer and dropped Bucky back down onto the bed, falling after him and burying his face in the damp, warm cradle of his neck.

The change in angle was doing murderous things to Bucky though and sounds soaked in helpless pleasure continuously poured past his lips. Steve would think he was putting it on—trying to sound like the girls at the cathouse or something—but Steve had enough experience of playing with Bucky’s sweet spots that he knew this was just the way he got when he was dick drunk. “Come on, Buck, c’mon,” he whispered, breathing his hot, forceful breaths right into Bucky’s ear.

Bucky came, shuddering, laughing, his whole body going suddenly heavy. He sank into the bed, their joined fingers still rubbing against his cock, stuffed between his stomach and the bed, but the rest of him a sodden mess.

Steve pushed himself down, too, bracing his elbows to finish himself off as quickly as possible, desperate to join his partner in the hazy place that was the after. When he came, it was with a long, low hum and a palm slapped to Bucky’s ass, shoving all his weight down, thrust deep inside where he could feel his come pumping in bursts, turning Bucky into even more of a mess.

“Guh,” he ended with. Smashing his face down into Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky’s chuckle was more of a vibration through both their bodies, “Jesus.”

Not so long ago, Steve would have stayed right where he was, draped over Bucky like a blanket after they fucked, but now he was very aware of the way tight little breaths were puffing against the blankets from Bucky’s lips. He levered himself up, not enjoying the cool air that immediately invaded their space.

“No,” Bucky mumbled, fumbling his hand behind himself to try and pull Steve back in.

Steve grabbed his fingers and squeezed, “I’m not going anywhere, just don’t wanna crush you.” He planted a little kiss at the top of Bucky’s spine.

“Don’t care,” was grouched into the bed, “crush me.”

This was also familiar, post-orgasm Bucky being a very lazy, sprawling thing. His thighs were still shaking and Steve pressed his hot palms to them, rubbing up and down soothingly as he watched Bucky try to wriggle right down into the mattress. When he stilled, settling into a comfortable sprawl, ass up, thighs spread, Steve put his fingers over the hot, flushed rim of his hole, enjoying the little ‘Mmph!’ that it produced.

“Nice ass,” he drawled, pressing his fingers in just so and enjoying the way his own come came sliding out in drips.

Bucky rolled his hips from side to side, showing off and whining into a pillow.

“God, Buck, the bed’s a mess,” Steve watched the come drip down, sliding over thighs and finding its way onto the bed which, now he was looking at it properly, was truly a ruin, and not just because it was old and clad in worn sheets of no real identifiable colour. There were smears of come, damp patches and right in the middle, a huge bloody stain where Bucky had been lying. “There’s blood all over,” he slapped at the inviting, wiggling ass again before sliding off the bed to try and figure out what to do.

Bucky just rolled over and continued making a mess, “What’s the big deal,” he yawned, “you’re Captain America.”

“That doesn’t get me extra ration stamps to replace bed sheets I fuck on, oddly enough,” Steve made his way to the bathroom and checked the curtains were tightly drawn before testing out the lights. They flickered on, dim and anemic, but working at least. “You didn’t thieve any nice silk sheets off that Nazi dame did’ya?” he called back into the bedroom, testing the geyser contraption that was affixed to the bathtub.

Bucky said something he couldn’t hear from the bedroom. A few minutes later, a sleepy figure appeared in the bathroom doorway, wearing the bloody, wet sheet. “I don’t want to be clean,” he fixed a glare on the lukewarm water streaming into the bath.

“Good. Because we can’t run more than three fingers of water into the bath,” Steve pointed at the little black line on the bathtub, indicating where they were allowed to fill up to with hot water, the limitations of rationing putting limits on every part of life, even being clean.

Bucky squinted, “Fuck that. Steve, let’s go and kill Hitler tomorrow. I’d rather be dirty than crouch in four full inches of Her Majesty’s finest bathwater.”

Nevertheless, he let the fabric wrapped around him drop in the doorway and came to dip his hand in the water. Satisfied it was warm-ish, he got in, turning to pull Steve in with him before sinking down and splashing water directly from the faucet onto his face and neck. Steve maneuvered his limbs down into the water, too, feeling as if his bulk filled every inch of the tub. It pushed the water up the sides, and Bucky hummed in pleasure when he could comfortably sit in the gap between Steve’s knees and splash water over the mess of blood and come on his stomach.

“You got so clean only to get so dirty,” Steve tapped his fingers on the last few smears of pink, feeling muscles jump under his hand.

Bucky didn’t smile—the time for that was gone into the lusty haze of ten minutes ago, but he seemed content. “Guess I did,” he muttered quietly as he reached to snag his illicit bar of stolen soap off the sink. He handed it to Steve and they spent a few kind moments washing up and sluicing themselves off with handfuls of water.

Even Steve was fighting off shivers when they were done rubbing down with the rough, hard towels that were all the former-hotel could provide. Bucky was turning a soft shade of blue. Leaving the ruined sheet where it lay, he crowded Bucky back towards the bed, inspecting what was left of the bedclothes. Thankfully there were a few more layers of un-bloodied blankets, though not much considering the biting December cold.

Still, once they were nestled up under them, limbs curled around one another in a cocoon, Steve felt sure he could sleep contentedly.

A pair of icy grey eyes fixed on his once he had settled in, head pillowed by his arm. Reaching out, he pushed the little wayward curl that insistently flopped down onto Bucky’s broad forehead back up. Bucky didn’t blink.

“What are you thinking about, huh,” he asked, leaving his hand rested in brown curls.

“Just thinkin’ about how you just fucked my ass into next week and barely broke a sweat.”

Steve couldn’t have kept the smirk off his lips if he had been paid a thousand English pounds. “That right?” he preened.

The veil of anger that seemed to wrap Bucky like a well-worn coat since Steve had pulled him out of Zola’s grasp at Azzano wasn’t yet back in place, and Bucky’s fond look was so strong it almost knocked Steve’s breath from his chest. “Yeah,” Bucky pushed himself closer until he was tucked right into Steve’s chest, “fucked me right into 1944.”

“Who says I won’t literally fuck you right into 1944,” Steve snuggled closer, enjoying the way he could coddle Bucky with his warmth.

“Because if the brass got anything to say about it, we’ll be deep in Hitler’s knickers by new year, and I’m not letting you fuck me in a German forest.”

Steve muffled his laughter, mostly because Bucky was right. There were only a few days left of the year, and they were due to drop behind enemy lines in just 24 hours. How Bucky had even got across the channel when Steve had been certain he was due at a checkpoint safehouse in the south of France, he did not know. “How’d you get all the way to London, anyway?”

Bucky got that grimly satisfied look about him again and closed his eyes, “Found a car that wasn’t wanted, hitched a lift on the regular boat.”

“Alone?”

“Nah, Monty came with.”

That made sense, Monty could open doors with the British secret services running elicit little boats across the channel.

“Came all the way back here to give me your Christmas present, huh?” Steve joked.

“Sure did,” Bucky said solemnly, eyes still closed.

“Thanks.”

A few warm breaths passed before Bucky said, “Sorry if the stupid corset was too much.”

Steve was surprised and tightened his grip on Bucky’s waist, sliding his thigh firmly over a cool hip. “Too much what?” he asked.

Bucky opened his eyes, but kept his lashes lowered over them, “Just—it’s not the same as it was, huh.”

“You and your knickers? Still a pretty good combination in my eyes,” Steve pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Bucky just hummed.

“I liked it,” Steve insisted, lowering his voice, “I liked hearing about her.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked right up to his at that, checking if he was lying. But Bucky should know better—Steve couldn’t lie to him. It took only the lightest of touches to push Bucky back into the mattress.

“Why would I have changed my mind, huh?” Steve pressed.

“I don’t know,” legs tangled, Bucky reached up to press his hand to Steve’s heart, “but it’s allowed, you know. Changing your mind. About me—or anything, really.”

Steve dipped to kiss at the hard plane of Bucky’s chest, then rested his chin there, the blankets rucked up around him. “I’m never going to change my mind about you,” he said.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he was a little pink on his cheeks, “That’s not—I mean, I know you’ve got a lot more, y’know, to give these days. Just because it’s a war, it doesn’t mean—”

“Are you telling me to go dip my wick, Buck,” Steve smiled into the soft flesh of his stomach, kissing there and putting his hands over as much bare flesh as he could to stave off the cold air that he was letting waft under the covers.

“Your boiling point is pretty low, Steve,” Bucky looked at him with a tilt to his head, “I’ve seen what you’ll make of things if you were given the chance. You shouldn’t just put up with me.”

“Excuse me,” Steve snorts into the soft, yielding flesh right over one of Bucky’s knife-like hip bones, “I’m not the one who’s stepped out with half of Brooklyn and sucked off the other half in secret.”

Bucky hissed out a scolding breath, “That is such an exaggeration, worthy of the most dramatic little queer I know, Steven Rogers.”

Laying his smile against Bucky’s skin, Steve looked up at him, “I don’t get what you’re tryna say, Buck. Say it plainer.”

“I just… You should live a little.” Bucky said lamely, turning his head away and seeming to take up a pretence of sleep.

Silence stretched between them for a while. Steve wasn’t entirely sure of whether Bucky was removing himself or trying to remove Steve from whatever it was that they had had between them for years already. Or even if he was really trying to remove anything. He decided to drop it and think about it later on, not when he had the opportunity to hold all these naked, soft limbs in his arms and love them without the limitations of missions, or orders, or enemy territory.

He slithered back up the bed to settle on his side, turning Bucky until he could nestle up against his back. 

“I think,” he addressed the tousled back of Bucky’s head, “that you think I only needed you because you were strong. But you could be a little kitten and I’d still need you, Buck.”

Bucky said nothing, curled into Steve’s chest, his sharp shoulder tucked up to his ear, but he did grasp Steve’s hand in his, pressed against his chest. They fell asleep among the stuttering lamps, frivolous and wasteful as they could get away with. A tiny fragment of luxury in a life filled with mud, and guns, and death.

Steve dreamed about the future, and Bucky dreamed about all the blood he was willing to spill to get them there.

* * *

**Image** : bloody corsetry | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Merry and bright.  
> I have [twitter](https://twitter.com/im_weapon) and [tumblr](https://im-weapon.tumblr.com). I’m very far from all my family and most of my friends this holiday, so I’ll have lots of free time to do inadvisable things on the internet. As usual.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [collab: Weaponized](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370213) by [kocuria-visuals (kocuria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals)




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